Drowning
by Noxaura Cille
Summary: He had always liked water. It fascinated him, the way it could change forms in under a minute, the way it could be shaped and sculpted, frozen and boiled. The way it could disappear without anybody noticing. Now, looking at the Black Lake, he wishes he could sink below the dark, chilly surface and never return. ONE-SHOT


_Notes: I do not have a beta, so I apologize in advance for any and all mistakes in grammar, spelling, transitions, punctuation, description, and anything else. I do not own the Harry Potter franchise._

 _ **Trigger Warning: Self-Injurious Tendencies, Suicidal Thoughts, Implied Suicide, Suicide, Minor Religious Themes, Mentioned Child Abuse/Neglect**_

 _This one-shot is Dedicated to Autumn, who made the cover (It's not yet up ready, but hopefully will be by 1/2/20)_

 _ **~Nox**_

 _ **Note: I have edited this. Here is the final version of**_ Drowning.

* * *

 **Drowning**

He had always liked water. Or aqua, eau, νερό, uisce, or whatever language you say it in. The concept stayed the same.

It fascinated him, the way it could change forms in under a minute, the way it could be shaped and sculpted, frozen and boiled. Pull someone under and trap them.

The way it could disappear without anybody noticing.

When he was younger, he would often wish he could be water, if only for a little while. If only to escape the pain and suffering, torture and starvation.

He knew better now: foolish hoping would only lead to pain and disappointment. Oh, how he knew. His family instilled it as an instinct from an early age.

But now, looking at the Black Lake, he wishes he could sink below the dark, chilly surface and never return. He wishes he could disappear and _not be noticed._ He just wants to disappear.

But the lake is frozen with the ice of December, and Ron is calling his name.

Before he walks back into the warm light of the castle, he casts one last longing look at the icy reservoir below.

It is oh-so tempting, and he hastily turns around before he can change his mind and do something he probably won't regret.

* * *

It's Christmas Eve, for those who celebrate it. He is glad, now, that he is Atheist, or he may feel bad about the magical chart he's making.

After all, what kind of God lets children starve? What kind of Lord and Savior lets children suffer at the hands of their families? Many Atheists just say that it's not possible or that Science is their religion.

He doesn't believe because a God would've, at the very least, been merciful and killed him.

He doesn't believe in Satan, either, because he would've probably already sent a demon to possess him, as he is not a believer.

The dorm is empty, as everybody else is either in the Great Hall for the Holiday Feast, or at home with their families, like Ron, Hermione, and Neville.

He is grateful because the chart is large, and he is afraid that, should anyone see it, they will attempt to stop him. He will not let them, of course, but the plans would be delayed.

He's terribly OCD about that kind of thing.

The noise level downstairs increases dramatically, and he cancels the spell silently before crawling into the crimson sheets, closing his eyes as the door opens.

* * *

He got a new sweater from Mrs. Weasley, some chocolate from Hermione, butterbeer from Ron, new Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder from the twins, and a book of pranks from Sirius and Remus.

Ron, Hermione, the twins, and Ginny came back with grins on their faces. He forced a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

Not that anybody noticed.

Thankfully.

* * *

He walks to the lake, the crisp January air turning the tips of his ear and nose a faint pink and numbing them.

The soft blanket of snow growing thicker by the minute as new flurries join it, he sits in an indent in the cold plumage, paying the gelidity no heed as he looks at he now-white surface of the lake, so covered with the soft down as it is.

He only wears a thin sweater, his scarf, sneakers, a a pair of jeans, and a small pair of gloves, yet he can barely feel the cold.

He sighs wearily, his breath panoptical as the chill alters it. He looks at the tree that many a student has sat under, and his gaze locks on an isolated icicle about the length of his forearm and the width of a bicycle bar.

 _Frozen and Sculpted_

And he grins.

* * *

The moonlight hits his dagger, making it shimmer slightly as it moves in a steady rhythm across his forearm. Crimson tears spill from careful incisions in rivulets onto the stone floor, making a _'drip'_ , _'drip'_ , _'drip'_ sound, like in a dank cave.

He's humming a haunting tune more befitting of a funeral.

* * *

It's February, and winter is drawing to a close.

The snow has stopped falling as viciously now, and more students have braved the cold. Draco Malfoy is among them, and he seems to sense a dark aura around him. It kind of scares him.

Luna Lovegood, a Ravenclaw a year under his, looks at him knowingly, and his heart leaps at the look in those eyes.

He turns away, however, because the lake is becoming visible again, and he mentally reviews his plan.

* * *

He brought an icicle into the common room when he finally went back in.

For experimental purposes only, of course.

It was crimson-tipped when he watched it melt with an awed look on his pale face.

* * *

He found a water bottle in his trunk today. He filled it up and stared at it for hours, going into a trance-like state that he only comes out of when Hermione asks him a question.

He looks up slowly, a confused look on his face.

Her face is slightly tanned, unlike his, which is a sickly pale, and her chocolate gaze nearly melts him like his favorite substance.

She throws her hands in the air exasperatedly at his confusion. She yells at him about how he needs to pay more attention, while Ron just nods in agreement, holding his tongue.

He feels salty tears building up, so he turns his head away, which only adds to Hermione's ire. Shortly after she stops yelling, receding footsteps are the last thing he hears before his feet pounding stone sounds throughout the now-empty corridor.

He doesn't know where he's going, just that he needs to get away from the judgmental stares. From the whispers and jeers.

He ends up at the lake, and he can't bring himself to be surprised. Not after everything this year.

It seems he's been ending up here a lot lately. It has become his sanctuary.

He doesn't know whether to laugh or cry.

He does both.

He vaguely wonders if, if someone were to see him, he would be thought insane.

He decides he no longer cares.

* * *

His friends started pulling away even more, after Hermione blew up.

When they were sitting in the common room one night in an awkward silence, Hermione abruptly jumped up, claiming she was tired despite it only being eight o'clock.

Ron simply pulled out his Potion's essay and worked until the silence became unbearable, and he walked to his dorm.

Ron did not come up to bed that night.

He cried himself to sleep.

* * *

March.

The Month of The Plan.

The Month of The Plan that involves The Lake to be thawed out.

In other words, the month in which he will get his wish.

March is also a very special month in the Magical Europe—it's the month of the birth of the Founders.

He wishes he's listened to the Hat.

Because his plan is very Slytherin.

* * *

The Twentieth.

Eleven days until The Day of The Plan.

He is counting down, now.

Ron saw his calendar. He looked at him like he'd grown a second head when he saw the large, dark circle around the Thirty-First, which had the words 'The Day' on it. He passed it off as nothing with a casual wave of his hand and raised eyebrow at his friend's hesitant look.

It goes to show how rocky their friendship was that Ron left, and then forgot about it the same day.

* * *

He feels like he's drowning in his sorrow.

His dorm mates avoid him, and Ron and Hermione are no better.

He ran out of tears last week.

* * *

The Twenty-Fifth.

Six days until The Day.

He has taken to carrying his calendar with him. He overheard Dean and Seamus discussing what "The Day" could possibly mean.

He tried to ignore it. But he also needs his calendar.

It's he only thing that keeps him going during the day.

Somehow, Hermione still found it. She payed it more attention, especially when she saw the white gauze poking out of his sleeve.

She stayed in the Library, most likely looking up all events on the thirty-first of March.

He pretended to not be nervous.

* * *

He didn't think she found anything, though, because she left a few days later looking confused but determined.

Little did she know that by the time she found anything—his original draft plan, kept in his trunk—she would be too late.

She wouldn't find it until the First of April. By then, he'd be gone.

Not that she's aware of the dire consequences of her delay.

* * *

The Thirty-First of March.

Zero days until The Plan.

It's 11:15 pm., so that he can spend his last moments by himself, with only his dagger as company.

Not that he needs anyone else. No, he and his dagger should be fine.

He doesn't need anyone to see him have his final breakdown.

He spends the time humming a haunting funeral dirge as his blade dances to an unheard beat on his pale, exposed skin.

He checks his watch, now stained with blood and tears.

11:58 pm.

He sighs again, and this time his breath is invisible, as winter is over, with the snow melting at an accelerated pace. He suspects magic.

11:59 pm.

He drops the blade on the grass, which has just a hint of water left over, stepping close to edge of the Black Lake.

12:00 am.

And He jumps.

* * *

He never learned how to swim.

He never had the chance.

He is glad, now, that the Dursleys made it _so much easier._

Because now, _he's not drowning._

Because now, _he's finally free._

And as he loses consciousness, he knows that _he's gone on unnoticed_.

 _ **Just like the plan...**_


End file.
